


contribute to the chaos

by transvav



Category: Mianite - Fandom, Mianitian Isles, Minecraft (Video Game), Realm of Mianite - Fandom
Genre: 1.16 nether is not nice to jordan., M/M, Mianitian Isles - Freeform, Nether bullshit, Sickfic, jordan uh. almost dies!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:13:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25272196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transvav/pseuds/transvav
Summary: the goddess' connection to her champion is a fickle thing. it comes back to haunt him in the nether.
Relationships: Dianite/Jordan Maron
Comments: 7
Kudos: 75





	contribute to the chaos

**Author's Note:**

> heehee gay

even with the expanding magic, jordan’s body holds no love for the nether, he finds.

that first runthrough into the new dimension isn’t as bad‒ perhaps because he’s adjusting, perhaps because karl is there to help even out the magic amongst the both of them. either way, the two of them make it through without any incident beyond a few dizzy spells and jordan’s stomach turning. he’s grown used to the way the nether makes him, it comes with the territory of being an ianitee‒ the overworld is not good to him either, not usually, but he’s grown used to it because of her magic. champions have to learn to survive in every situation, of course, and while mianitees hold no issues in the overworld, the chosen heroes of chaos and balance would always have some type of problem. jordan’s was that the sun was often too bright for his eyes, leaving spots across his vision if it wasn’t for his sunglasses. tom’s was that he could never breathe the air right, easily becoming lightheaded if he got too excited. but the two of them had managed because they were champions, and their gods did what they could to keep them strong, and fighting. this was the way of the world. this was who they _were_.

the nether, though, is intricately worse. one would think it was worse for the mianitees‒ order and chaos in strict opposition. should it not be worse for those who thrive on order in chaos’ domain? but there is something to be said about the realm of balance, and the realm of chaos. it is not that the ideals themselves are against one another, no, but the end is cold, and unforgiving, and an open darkness that swallows everything whole, that allows nothing but lost souls to thrive in it’s wake. the nether is warm, but closed off, overbearing, and bright, even with the allowance of a new start, a new beginning. the rebirth of the new magic allows new living‒ fungus and trees, creatures and living dead, and the discovery of new material, stronger, and much more rare. the dimensions are opposites, and even with ianite’s blessing, too long in dianite’s realm will make the champion of balance begin to deteriorate, like a poison seeping slowly into his blood.

which is why it’s a severe issue when jordan is suddenly pulled to the nether without warning, a lurch in his stomach the only warning he has before he crashes into warped nylium, the heat washing over him in an instant and making him choke on the air, the unfamiliar taste of the newest fungus settling uncomfortably on his tongue.

he does not recognize this part of the nether. it hasn’t been too long since he’s visited, but even a glance at his comm screen tells him he’s far, far away from where he should be. he pulls up the keyboard quickly and types out a one-handed message just to the general channels.

_ok so who teleported me?_

the screen glitches red. the message doesn’t go through. he tries a couple more times, but it never sends, so he huffs and deletes it, and types something new.

_guys im serious bring me back_

nothing. nothing, nothing, the screen just keeps glitching more and more. feeling his gut sinking every time it refuses to send. his heart rate picks up‒ not great, not here‒ and he’s trying not to panic, he really is. one more try, maybe.

_guys?_

the screen glitches. and stays red. and stays red, and stays red, and the color burns into his retinas and makes him screw his eyes shut until he hears a scratching noise, deafening and staticy, and then his comm unit goes blank and shuts down, the glass cracking and popping out of use.

jordan wants to scream. he wants to cry, he wants to panic. his whole body is shaking. he can feel the magic of the nether already bleeding into his system, pinching and sharp. he bites down on his tongue to keep from throwing up‒ bites down too hard, tasting copper and chorus fruit. he breathes. he _tries_ to breathe. it’s just a small mess-up, they’ll notice he’s gone soon. they’ll bring him back. it’s fine. he can do a couple hours‒ he can do a full day, but it won’t take _that long_. breathe, captain, he reminds himself. they’ll get you back.

despite it all, he curls into himself, just for a moment. he knows it’s odd of him as an ianitee to like the heat so much, but it’s just how he’s always been. his lady had explained it, once, as a pre-existing bias.

“even the most devout followers of balance have one, captain,” she’d told him on a clear summer night, the foxes sharing their laps. “and you of course are no exception‒ yours may not be as strong as any other followers, because of your championship, but you have a bias. and it will shape parts of you no matter what, and every other part of you will try to fight it off, to keep you‒ well, to keep you balanced, of course.”

he thinks about that now. and he thinks about how so long ago he’d almost joined tom, almost slipped into chaos’ grasp. would it ever be easy, here? would he ever feel some semblance of calm beyond the heat, he wonders. somewhere close, an enderman makes a questioning noise, and he feels sharp talons at his temple, cold and gentle. the creatures of the end have always been kind to him, even before she’d met her. he feels bad about what he’s done at his farm, but in all fairness, they know it helps him in some way, and if they were unwilling, they would have stopped him long ago. the souls of the lost are not so easily forgotten again, despite what many may believe, and losing their form does not stop them from coming back. for the champion.

the enderman wakes him gently, rouses him into a standing state, and holds out a single block of warped stem. it gurgles, and he understands every twisted word: _survive. like it is a new world, and you are fresh in the face of oncoming danger. survive like you have before._

jordan takes the stem and wipes the sweat from his brow and ignores the sinking, empty feeling in his stomach, the persistent hunger. he seems to have been asleep for a while, now‒ he trusts his own internal clock, and also the feeling of, well, being hungry after a nap. the stem is like wood in his palms, and he takes a slow, deep breath, and starts to do as he is guided.

* * *

he’s managed to build himself a house before the first wave of nausea truly hits.

he stumbles inside and locks the door behind him. it plunges him into darkness and that’s enough to keep a large amount of the edge off for some time, but it does nothing to stop the queasiness, the dancing lights still spotting behind his eyelids. a shiver runs up his spine despite the overwhelming heat, threatening to boil him where he stands (still a comfort, though, which, to a point, scares him). but he’s had nothing to eat, so all it does, for the moment, is make his head spin and his throat dry. he hiccups out an empty sob and knows that this will not be going away anytime soon. knows he has had worse.

he has nearly bled out in fights, and he has gone through revivications and rebirths through ianite’s power during purges. he has fought gods and he has lost, and he has fought titans and _won_. jordan has seen and been in wars, has been smited, has felt the void’s unforgiving pull and rip and tear. he has had _worse_.

but that doesn’t make it easy, does it, captain, alone, and lonely, and ~~abandoned~~ ‒

no. not yet. they’re coming, they have to be. it hasn’t been that long. it couldn’t have been that long to leave him alone.

he’s lucky enough to have come across enough gold to protect himself from the new inhabitants, and just enough to start trading as well. his luck peaks when the first thing he’s given is a high tier fire protection potion. it’s chilled in the glass as a side effect of it’s magic, frosted at the edges, like an ice pack that will never melt. he keeps it pressed to the back of his neck as he travels further, scouring for abandoned portals, a glimpse of purple amongst the red, blue and grey.

and speaking of purple.

when he wipes the blood dripping from his nose, he finds it lighter than usual. in any other circumstances, dark blood might have been an issue, but his was tinted, twisted by the magic that made him just beyond human‒ champions, he thinks, are very odd beings indeed, vessels of their ideals, warriors of their gods and keepers of their word. not quite like the priests, and a little more than just a follower‒ the god and the champion are an even connection. it takes a lot to become something like that, more than just devotion, more than just faith. jordan wonders if he’d ever really deserved such an honor, especially so quickly after meeting her. a follower he could be. a champion was something else.

his blood looks _red_ , though, like normal, and his heartbeat picks up as he smears his dirty fingers onto his jeans and sniffs, trying not to think about the implications of a fraying bond. but that’s just it, isn’t it‒ he hasn’t tried to pray to her. he’s afraid to do so. afraid of what happens when his hunch is right, when she doesn’t answer him, when she can’t find him, when he’s no longer _hers_. will it persist in every realm, he wonders, if the fresh bond he feels with her here breaks? he hopes not.

he misses home, lavender flowers and forget me nots, the feeling of silk running between his fingers, the sweetness of sugar under his tongue. he wonders, when this is all over, if he will be able to return to her again. _his_ lady, his power. she’d... probably set him straight. he knows he’s been a little all over the place with things, knows his faith is a little much. he thinks it’s the desperation. the abandonment issues, maybe, not that they’ve ever been much of a problem, but he’s always wanted to belong to something bigger than him.

he got his wish, didn’t he?

another trade with a piglin grants him ender pearls and he nearly sobs in relief at the familiar spheres. the liquid inside is unstable, but precious, and if he can manage to stay upright enough to get blaze powder, he could create the eyes‒ to what purpose, though, other than comfort. would they even work in the end beyond a reminder of who he is tied to? would they lead him to safety and salvation? he’s curious, sure but finding the powder won’t do much‒ so he takes a risk. with a small shard of quartz he cracks the shell of one of the pearls, just the smallest amount to keep the shattered edge as clean as he can. the liquid inside gleams brighter through the crack, a dark minty green with flashes of purple that glows in the darkness, shifts with every movement, a new galaxy in every movement shining through. it is mesmerizing every time, and it is the start of the last resort.

he lifts the opening to his mouth and drinks.

the taste is like silver and mint and leaves a coating in his mouth that feels like ice water in the middle of the night‒ it’s not too thick, and not too thin, almost like milk, in a way, but none of that matters. what matters is how it soothes that damnable ache, slows his heart, satiates every part of him, invigorates him, reminds him he is human. it does not _fix_ him, does not stop the blood from leaking, his head from pounding, but he can ignore it, with this. it is addicting, he finds, and tilts it back up to his lips, drinking like it was all he had left. maybe it was.

the glass shatters in his hand and he is left with miniscule shards torn into his skin, and he shakes where he sits, licking at his lips and grasping at the fraying thread around his heart, trying so, so hard to keep this version of her tied to him. he doesn’t know what else he has.

the three remaining pearls in his inventory sit a little heavier in his mind, the magic seeming to pulse and hum with a reminder that they are there. jordan shudders, and screws his eyes tight, and starts to _move_.

* * *

a week.

it takes a week before he can no longer even stand without his falling immediately‒ his muscles are not weak, but his body fights against it. the magic of the nether pushes him down further and further, the heaviest gravity he’s ever felt. he is confined to the warped planked floor, the blue of the fake wood shifting with the world and the red fog of this biome. there’s ash drifting in from the nearby basalt towers, settling over him like snowfall, smearing across his skin, peppering into his hair.

the pearls are gone, and the endermen no longer come to him, for whatever reason‒ but then again he has nearly cut his tongue multiple times licking the blade of his sword clean just for the relief the blood of the end creatures brings. even if it’s not _real_ , even if it doesn’t help as much as it did at first, it is the only thing that reminds him of her anymore. he can’t feel the bond, and his blood is red again, dripping from his nose, from the corner of his eyes, from deep in his lungs and stomach and throat. it mocks him, reminds him there’s one way out of it.

but the oath he took was to serve her through every battle. until death.

this is death, isn’t it?

“i’m sorry,” he says in a broken, scratchy voice. “i’m sorry, my lady, i’m sorry. i failed you. it’s all i’m good for, isn’t it. failing you. the most I did for you back then was bring you back, and then i _left_ you‒ what good was i in any situation. what good did i do you in the before, when you were trapped, when you were dying and alone? what good did i do you after, leaving like i did? and what good did i do _her_ ‒ what good did i do her by reminding her of someone who was gone, by failing to listen properly, by letting her...”

another sharp pain wracks his body and he chokes on a dry sob. everything is too hot, too hot, too _hot_ , but he can’t stop shivering. he can’t stop. did anyone look? did anyone listen?

“and this child,” he whispers. “this poor version of you, so lost in the world. i’ve done nothing for her at all, just distracted her from learning what she could have done without me. i led her astray, my lady, i’m not _hers_. i never would be. all i do,” he breathes. “is... fail‒”

the string on his heart frays beyond repair. a single thread is all it is, now, not that it matters. he never gets the last words out. the world blurs into darkness as he closes his eyes to fall into a rest he knows, deep down, that he will not wake up from.

it’s warm, and the ground is soft. unbeknownst to him, fungus is growing between the planks beneath him, curling up around his wrists and ankles, reaching for his bare skin and pulling him closer to the comfort of the earth. around him, the obsidian in the chests cracks the wood and expands outwards, tears of glowing purple appearing in the broken, dark glass. the magic crawls steadily towards him, reaching for his still body, entirely too prepared to immortalize him there, a shadow figure in the corner watching, satisfied with their work‒

and then the door crashes open.

* * *

the captain is missing, missing, missing, and ianite is beside herself with fear even though he is not hers. this is the way of the isles work, this is the way the _world_ works‒ their mother, bless her, was wrong in how she dreamed, what she’d seen. the captain is not his sister’s, the zombie is not his‒ the caveman _was_ his brothers, but that was because he was new to the land. in another world, he would have been a follower of chaos as well. the islands change things. this is no exception.

so dianite is desperate to keep the captain in his peripheral‒ the zombie is a good man, and a loyal follower, but sooner or later the ruse will fail him and he’ll recognize he’s better off as a follower of ianite, here. it’s less about what they are said to be, and more about what they _really_ are. the version of the goddess the captain pledged himself to is one of justness, of reprisal and retaliation in the face of interference. but dianite’s sister here is unsure of herself and finds it all a simple game‒ ianite is stubborn, and set in her ways, and assured that she is _always_ right, here. her way is the only way there is, because she believes that’s how balance works.

the zombie seems to be very good at thinking that.

dianite, on the other hand, finds that what the zombie believes him to be is not what he _is_. chaos is chaos, yes, and needs no reasoning in many cases, but finds that most of what he does is just for... _necessity_. his brother had been too proud when his arrival was announced, so. a little bit of tnt to the temple, then, just to delay his coming, to make him _rethink_. to spread time out. to remind him of what he was _supposed_ to be, probably. dianite’s just good at playing both sides.

_the sweetest of the siblings_. he’s his mother’s _baby_ , her precious little boy. but he’s _chaos_ , isn’t he, shouldn’t he be _evil_ , shouldn’t he be‒ oh, to hell with it all. to _hell_ with it all, dianite thinks. he’ll do whatever he damn well pleases. chaos is not one steady thing, isn’t it?

yeah, fuck that, he thinks, and then the captain goes _fucking missing_.

they all know it’s the darkness’ fault, of course. the priest has searched and scoured, and is convinced the captain has been taken to the prison, but even after a heist the same day, they return, empty handed. it is a _week_ , of terror, of fear, of concern, because ianite started crying so soon after they’d come back without him and said with horror in her voice that _he is dying_ , and she doesn’t know what to do, because the champion bond was never made. she can’t find him.

he isn’t _hers_.

and then, when the week is out and over, ianite comes to him, shaking and gripping at her head. “he’s dying,” she says, and dianite reaches a hand out to tell her he knows, but she hiccups and continues. “ _and he’s apologizing to me. to her. to us._ ”

“where is he?” he asks, taking her by the shoulders, and she screws her eyes shut, and tries, tries so hard, the connection is weak but still there, and she can find him, dianite _knows_ she can‒

there.

he teleports a little far off, but there is a house on the hill in the biome, nestled neatly between the overgrown fungus, a jarring teal blue against the crimson‒ but the fog around the shack is dark and darker by the second, and dianite _sprints_.

“hello, little chaos,” his other creator greets him when the door is in splinters across the room. “i hope you don’t mind much! the poor captain seemed so _exhausted_. a little rest would do him some good, don’t you think?”

“let him go,” dianite says, and pulls the captain close to his chest away from the obsidian and growing fungus. “wake him _up_.”

“oh, i didn’t do this to him,” the darkness croons. “his bond to his goddess makes the nether so _unbearable_ to him. it’s just the magic he accepted. three goddesses. triple the fight against chaos. against _you_. he won’t wake up, not unless he breaks his bond. and, well.”

the smoke and shadow slips out the door behind him and leaves the two of them be with a final word‒ dianite cannot chase them, of course he can’t. not with the captain dying in his arms.

_**we all know he never would do that, would he?** _

the captain is so still in his arms, flushed with fever and drenched in his own sweat, but behind his eyelids there is movement, and a whisper of breath still left in his lungs, and dianite knows his time is almost up. there is one thing he can do and he hopes, he prays, he _begs_ the universe to let the captain be smart enough to just _listen_ , for once. let him save him, please.

he loves him, he knows. so.

let him have his champion like he truly deserves.

* * *

_captain_ , someone whispers.

the world is dark but on fire. his heart is too loud in his ears and yet, somehow, their voice overpowers it, soft and sweet. for some reason, he thinks of roses.

_i know you love her. i know she is yours, but i need you to rethink it._

he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, he’s ianite’s, he has to be.

_you are hers, always, and always will be, but you are not meant to be hers **here**_. _please, think about it, really think about it‒ and let me help you._

something wet hits his cheek‒ tears? who is crying for him, he wonders, except he understands. it hurts and he is so afraid of failing her but he understands. help him. please. he’s sorry, ianite, but help him, he is so scared.

_repeat after me._

he will.

_i renounce my bond to the ianite of these isles. i mean it to be true._

he does, and it hurts, but the relief is almost instantaneous‒ the pressure of the nether magic still lingers, but not as much as it did before, more like an ache that’s been there for years. it is so much _less_ than it was, and he nearly sobs, but he is still trapped to his own mind.

_my pledge will change with my bond. i give myself, my word, my body and heart, instead, to chaos. i will fight in his name, i will work as he asks, and i will carry his message to those who choose to follow him alongside me._

oh, he realizes gently, he knows who this is now, and‒ he finds he’s okay with this.

_i accept the role_ ‒ the god above him whispers, and jordan opens his mouth just enough to breathe‒

“of dianite’s champion.”

* * *

his new god kisses him, and the world blossoms to life again. his heart races. the fire in his blood seems to ignite again and makes him feel alive in a way he hasn’t in so very, very long, and it is so _nice_ , he finds, to lean into his bias without falling off of the tightrope of balance he’s walked so, so carefully‒ it is like this is the trapeze, and jordan knows he can land so easily if need be.

dianite is chaos, yes, but this dianite is so different, isn’t he, softer and kinder in ways the others hand not been, but still just enough to make jordan _burn_ and wish and want, and he... has.

when dianite pulls away, jordan almost chases after him, but finds it too much energy to exert.

“hello, captain,” the god says instead, brushing the hair from his face. “my captain.”

“we should... talk.”

“perhaps,” dianite tells him, and smiles. “i think, for now, we should get you home, my heart. my champion.”

“your heart?”

dianite hesitates, taking a slow, deep breath, and places a hand over jordan’s chest, and take jordan’s in his own and brings it up to his as well. and jordan finds, now, that their hearts beat together, steady and quick‒ and hears the pounding _everywhere_ , now, the pulse of the lava, the flow of the magic. the nether is a part of dianite, and now, jordan finds, a part of him, too.

“there’s much to discuss,” the god whispers. “and i promise, we will. but for _now_ , captain?”

“home,” jordan breathes, and leans to kiss dianite again.

**Author's Note:**

> my [tumblr](http://transvav.tumblr.com)  
> i also don't want me to be doing what i'm doing. trust me


End file.
